


Time to think, to live

by Kitkire



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Coming Out, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, He/Him Pronouns For Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, mild implied transphobia, not very present so far but it influences my writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 03:08:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkire/pseuds/Kitkire
Summary: The skirt stares at him, adorned with a  rather hideous loud pattern of multicolored flowers.It wouldn’t be the first time he wore a skirt – he used to borrow Georgie’s clothes a lot, back in uni. But that was a long time ago, and he had abandoned exploration of that kind when he felt that looking professional and respected was the most important thing he could strive for.It had always been at the back of his mind, now that he thinks on it, but he never really had the time or space to dwell on it. There were always more important things happening than gender, of all things.-Just a little fic interspersed with gender exploration, and slight pining
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic ever! Finished that is. My first fic is a tma hunger games AU, so if you're interested in that sort of thing, I should be posting the first chapters soon! I wrote this as a break in between, it's not beta read or edited(I did try), so apologies if it's ooc! This is mostly based on my own experiences as agender and asexual, and I hope someone enjoys it. I posted it as finished, but I will probably be adding more chapters later(centered on other experiences I want to explore)  
> Since this is my first time posting, I'm not sure about the tags, if anyone thinks I should have tagged something please tell me!

The skirt stares at him, adorned with a rather hideous loud pattern of multicolored flowers.

They had been at the cabin for a week, now, and both Jon and Martin quickly realized they couldn’t just keep rewashing the same clothes every three days, especially considering there was no washing machine in the cabin.

So they decided to make a day out of it, and go shopping for some new ones. Jon was a little apprehensive, but so far he hadn’t felt _hungry_ for anything since Peter, and he trusted Martin wouldn’t let him do anything like that.

Plus, he really didn’t want to let Martin go to the village alone. For both Martin’s sake and his. He looked over to the right to see Martin’s black hair streaked with white peeking above the aisles, and resisted the urge to go check on him. He’d be _fine_. He was getting better, and color had returned to his eyes, back to the deep warm brown Jon was used to.

They hadn’t really talked about what happened in the Lonely, or before, not quite yet. The first night they arrived exhausted, and they fell into the lone dusty bed together, neither willing to abandon the other.

Every night since then had been the same, and neither mentioned it. It lingered in the air every time they spoke, every time they huddled close together on the lumpy sofa. Today, Martin had tentatively taken his hand when they left the cabin, as he did every time they had taken a walk before. Every time, Jon is grateful that a blush doesn’t really show on his face, because every time, it feels like something new, something big.

He misses the warmth of Martin’s hand now, as he stands there. The store itself is rather small, more of a secondhand shop, filled with extravagant costumes or clothes that Jon would almost attribute to the Spiral for the headache they give him. There’s only two more people in the store, both who stared unabashedly at Jon and Martin when they arrived. He doesn’t hold it against them – after all, they are quite an unusual pair. In a mostly white Scottish village, they stood out quite a bit, not even counting Jon’s scars and Martin’s hair.

He’s grateful to find they aren’t staring at him now, as he takes the edges of the skirt in his fingers. He always had an affinity for knowing how something would feel; probably from touching everything he could see as a child, so he’s pleased to find that the fabric is as soft and smooth as he predicted. He can’t stop thinking about how it would feel on his legs, how it would look.

It wouldn’t be the first time he wore a skirt – he used to borrow Georgie’s clothes a lot, back in uni. But that was a long time ago, and he had abandoned exploration of that kind when he felt that looking professional and respected was the most important thing he could strive for. He scoffs.

It had always been at the back of his mind, now that he thinks on it, but he never really had the time or space to dwell on it. There were always more important things happening than _gender_ , of all things.

He doesn’t need to get it. He already chose a few long sleeved shirts, and one jumper(even though Martin’s jumpers are practically his now, he thinks that Martin would probably appreciate him not stealing them all the time), a few warmer pants, and a pair of walking boots. A skirt wasn’t really necessary.

He looks back to where Martin was, and sees him scrunch his nose at his reflection as he tries out one of those winter hats with ear flaps. Jon fees warm, and the smile comes naturally. Martin hadn’t even been able to look at himself in the mirror for a while. Martin senses him watching(his gaze isn’t all that soft these days), and turns to look at him.

He looks rather adorable, the hat far too big for him, with an embarrassed smile on his face. He starts to walk over, and Jon belatedly realizes he’s still holding the edge of the skirt. He lets go.

“What do you think?” Martin tugs at one of the flaps. “It might be useful later, I was looking at the weather predictions for this winter, and Scotland has some pretty harsh ones.”

Jon’s still a bit stuck on how Martin said _later_ , implying that they’re going to stay that long. But then he recovers, and smirks. “You kind of remind me of Lady Amaryllis, actually, with all that fluff in your face.”

“Oi! Lady Amaryllis is a perfectly respectable cow!” Martin shoves him playfully, and the place where he touches Jon’s shoulder blooms with warmth. Jon chuckles. “Yes, and I’m sure she has perfect eyesight as well.”

Martin smiles, his eyes crinkling, and Jon is so grateful to have been the one to put that smile on his face. “Oh alright, I’ll get a smaller one then.” He takes it off, and then notices where they’re standing. “Do you have everything you need?”

Jon hesitates. He _knows_ Martin would be okay with it, and god knows they had enough money, from Peter’s cards, but something still holds him back. He’s never been particularly confident in who he was, always afraid of other people’s eyes and judgement. But this is _Martin_. And Jon – he loves him, so very much, and he’s never felt quite as safe as he does now. So the thing that usually would make him walk away, make him bury parts of himself yet again, is overpowered by an intense desire to _try_.

“I-I actually I wanted to take this, as well.” He takes the skirt gently, almost reverently. “I know it looks hideous, and overly colorful, and the pattern doesn’t match _at all_ , but I think it-“ he trails off at the end, not looking back at Martin’s face.

“It has a..charm to it, yeah.” Martin says, a smile in his voice.

Jon clutches the skirt and adds it to the cart with his other things. It’s eventually buried by other things, as Martin takes a look at what Jon picked out before, makes a noise, and proclaims that Jon will probably freeze to death. Jon halfheartedly protests, but he eventually concedes to choosing a coat, some wooly socks(‘Jon, your feet are _freezing cold_ ’) and a matching ear flap hat. Martin laughs. And then Jon puts the hat on, and Martin laughs more, and they both burst into giggles. The other two people in the store were _definitely_ staring now, but Jon couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The lady behind the till gives them a warm smile, and while Martin is getting out the card, Jon notices a small rainbow pin on her uniform. She catches him staring, and winks. He flushes and turns away.

Martin takes his free hand again when they leave the store, almost instinctively, and Jon is struck with the realization that the woman in the store probably thought they were a couple.

Though honestly, _he’s_ not even sure what they are at this point. Martin probably needs an anchor to keep the Lonely away, and maybe once he doesn’t, he’ll stop reaching for Jon’s hand. There’s a small selfish part of him that hopes, with a not small amount of guilt, that that never happens. Of course, that is overpowered by Jon wanting Martin to be happy and okay, and if that means he’ll eventually stop wanting to be around Jon and stop touching him, he’ll be okay with it. He will.

It’s a fairly nice day, for Scotland, and they’re lucky enough to see some cows on the way back. Lady Amaryllis is with them, as well as Madame Helia and Ginger. They stop to fawn over them a bit, but then get going when Jon’s knees start to protest. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had brought a cane. Maybe he can look around the next time they go down to the village, see if they have any.

He almost forgets about the skirt.

They fumble around making lunch, making due with the groceries they bought a couple days ago. Neither Jon nor Martin had much experience with cooking; Martin mostly cooked for his mother, he tells Jon, but her tastes weren’t very varied, so he didn’t get to experiment much. Jon, on the other hand, always had a rather strange relationship to food. He never felt hunger much, even before the Eye, and so mostly had to force himself to eat. He’s also always been a ‘picky eater’, as his grandmother liked to remind him, which resulted in simple meals to avoid having to experiment with bad textures or tastes.

This results in both of them looking up recipes in an old cookbook that Daisy had seemingly never opened, surprisingly varied, and debating the various pros and cons of meals; how much time it would take to prepare, do the textures seem okay, stuff like that.

Today they were trying out stir fried tofu and rice, with raw vegetables for Jon(the temperature disparity was too much, vegetables were supposed to be _cold_ ), and it was going well. The kitchen in the cabin was fairly small, so they kept bumping into each other, and Jon was almost overwhelmed with how _domestic_ it was. Disregarding the fact that they were on the run from supernatural fear entities and an evil boss.

After lunch, they tended to migrate to the lumpy couch in the living room, either to read one of Daisy’s frankly ridiculous books, or in Martin’s case, write poetry. Today it seemed to be the latter, with Martin furiously scribbling in the little notebook Jon had bought him at the train station.

Martin had still seemed so far away, not completely lost, but _away_ nonetheless, and when they were buying tickets, Jon had spotted the small notebook. It was nothing special, but when he had dragged Martin to the store and bought it for him, Martin had burst into tears on the spot. Jon panicked, thinking he had done something wrong, but Martin had hugged him and said that he hadn’t written anything in ages. _“I’m not-not sure if I even can, anymore.”_ Jon had clutched him tighter, and said, _“Well, if you ever decide to try, I’d be happy to read it.”_ Martin had laughed wetly. _“It won’t be any good.”_

_“It doesn’t need to be, it’s yours, and I’ll lo-I’d be honored if I got to see it.”_

Martin was definitely making use of the notebook, even though he admitted to Jon that it was mostly scratched out ideas. The first time he wrote in it, he got frustrated to tears, and Jon got worried, told him not to do it for _his_ sake. Martin had snapped. _“Not everything’s about_ you _, Jon.”_ He had taken a deep breath. _“Sorry. I-It’s just I wanted_ something _to be normal, you know? This has been a constant throughout my life, a comfort when I had none, and now-“_ His breath had hitched, and Jon sat closer to him, hesitantly put his hand over Martin’s. _“I can’t seem to find anything there, and I just want to quit trying sometimes. The only emotions I get access to now are anger and grief and frustration. Not very conducive to poetry, huh?”_ Jon had hummed and rubbed his thumb over Martin’s hand. _“It’ll come back.”_

_“What if it doesn’t?”_ Martin had breathed, so quietly Jon had to strain to hear.

_“We’ll find something else. Like-like scrabble.”_

Martin had snorted. _“You just want to win at something for once.”_ Jon had smiled, and then they had abandoned the notebook in favor of a card game.

That had been four days ago, and since then Martin had started smiling more, and his skin felt warmer. He still got frustrated, but that was to be expected. The Lonely was rather insidious, and Martin had been close to it for a very long time. But now he was sitting in a ray of sun, the light making his black hair shine, his tongue slightly sticking out as he thought. It was charming, and Jon would have usually sat down next to him to read and discretely watch him some more, but now there was something else nagging at him.

The skirt had been in the back of his mind ever since they arrived, just slightly distracting, and now, in the quiet of the cabin, the urge to try it out was stronger than ever.

He headed back to the bedroom, where they had put the bags, and rifled through to find it. Now that he was- _home,_ instead of in the store, it felt more real, somehow. Still as soft though.

Struck with a surge of confidence, he put it on. It fit perfectly, just above his ankles, and he reveled in swishing it around for a moment. It was _nice_ , and when Jon looked at himself in the dirty cracked bathroom mirror, it felt right, in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. He had put his hair up in a bun today, his burnt hand not quite up to braiding anymore. He never had it this long before; he had stopped cutting it after Prentiss, not quite being able to handle sharp implements near his face, then later there was no time. He was rather glad about that now. It felt more like _him_.

He returned to the living room, and stood in front of the bookcase to pick out a book.

“Oh,” Martin said, and Jon tensed automatically. He turned around with his chosen book in hand. Martin’s face was very red. “You, uh, you look lovely! Um,-“

Jon smiled and sat down next to him. “Thank you.”

Martin kept glancing at him periodically the next hour. Sometimes he opened his mouth as if to talk, but never said anything.

“What.”

Martin jolted. “Sorry?”

“You keep staring at me.” Jon puts down his book. It wasn’t all that interesting anyway.

“It’s just that,” Martin fidgeted with his pen, “I’ve never seen you this relaxed, I don’t think. You were either too paranoid, or scared, or worried, and even here, I know you get anxious about El-Jonah. So it’s nice.”

Jon feels a familiar fondness rise up. He hopes it’s not too obvious in his eyes. “I suppose I am. Relaxed, that is.”

A few minutes later, Martin puts away the notebook and goes to make a fire in the fireplace. The cabin had less than adequate heating, but fortunately Daisy had kept a stack of cut wood in a shack nearby, so they were doing okay. _She kept it stacked so she could burn any nearby victims_ , the Eye informs him, and he scowls.

When Martin finishes, he brushes his pants off and glances at the window. The sun is setting. “Up for a game?” he asks.

Daisy, surprisingly(or maybe not, considering how she was after the Buried), had a lot of boardgames scattered around the cabin. Most of them had missing pieces, or were moldy, but some were salvageable. And since there wasn’t any internet at the cabin, they were both desperate for other sources of entertainment.

Jon agrees, and gets up to start looting through the ‘game box’. “Any preference?”

“Uhh, anything really,” Martin says distractedly, and Jon registers him walking around the room. A few seconds later, scratchy music comes on. He turns to see Martin fiddling with the old radio in the kitchen until a song without static comes on. It’s something he’s not familiar with, low and soothing.

He picks out some sort of card game with a fox illustration, and sits on the carpeted floor in front of the couch. Martin joins him, carrying a bottle of wine.

“Wha-“

“I snuck it in when you were choosing between the same type of bourbons, thought we could use some,” Martin cuts him off.

“ _They’re not the same_ -anyway, I thought wine gave you headaches?”

Martin shrugs and makes a grimace. “I, uh-I didn’t really want to drink that day.” _His mother had compared him going out to pubs with Tim and Sasha to his father’s drinking habits and-_ Jon forces the door shut. He didn’t need to know that. “Felt like I needed an excuse.”

Jon refrains from saying that no one there would have pressured him, tries not to think of Tim and Sasha at all. Instead he opens the bottle, and pours some in a glass.

Martin wins the card game. Jon argues that the rules were way too convoluted, and that they need a rematch with a different game. Martin laughs, his cheeks tinted, and picks another game at random. This one’s missing pieces, so Jon uses his hair tie as a piece, and Martin uses the pen still lying on the couch.

Jon wins, and so it goes. At some point, they’ve steadily migrated towards each other, and now their shoulders are touching. They’re both a bit tipsy, Martin because he hadn’t drank anything in _ages_ , and Jon is honestly surprised the alcohol affects him at all.

“Why-Why are we even sitting on the _floor_ , god-“ Martin giggles. “There’s a perfectly good-“

“I wouldn’t call it perfectly good-“

“-a _perfectly good_ couch right behind us. And we’re here.” Martin slaps his hand on the carpet, narrowly missing Jon’s thigh. The fire is almost dying out now, the glow illuminating their faces, games abandoned on the floor.

“D’you remember,” Martin says, “how Tim sat in chairs? All bundled up like a pretzel. And S-“ He stops. Takes a deep breath. “Sasha used to sit on the floor, against her desk. Said it was better for her spine, what with the horrible chairs the Archives had.” He smiles.

“Guess we should have known none of us were straight.”

“ _Jon!_ ” Martin splutters and laughs, his body shaking.

Martin’s glasses are slowly sliding down his face, and Jon stifles a laugh. He reaches out to push them back into place, and as he does so, Martin stills. Jon’s fingers linger a second too long before he pulls them back. It’s suddenly way too quiet, the music long since gone.

Martin takes his hand before he can pull it back, and holds it gently. Jon could pull back, if he wanted, but he doesn’t.

The wine bottle is empty; at some point they abandoned the glasses entirely and just shared the bottle. Jon desperately wishes for some more. Martin’s face is warm and glowing, and he looks-hopeful? There’s a drop of wine on his lower lip, and Jon fixates on that instead.

“Can I-“Martin starts, voice trailing off.

“I love you.” _Shit._ Jon always had a tendency to blurt things out without any filter whatsoever, and now he’s done it. Martin’s going to be overwhelmed, is going to leave, and Jon will never see his eyes light up ever again, and-

Martin clutches his hand. “What?”

“No, uh, what were you going to say? I mean, we can ignore that, if you want, it doesn’t have to change anything, I know it’s too late and I’m _fine_ with you just being here, I’m _happy_ as long as you are-“

“Jon.”

“I-I can take the sofa, if you want, and-“

“ _Jon._ ” Martin grabs his other hand, which had started to frantically fidget with his skirt again. “ _What_ are you talking about?” His eyes are intense, and they ground Jon a bit. _His anchor,_ he thinks.

“I-you said ‘loved’, in the Lonely.” He whispers.

“Jon. That was the Lonely. I was-it was _lying_ to me, I wasn’t actually thinking I was getting out, I-“ his voice breaks, “I-of _course_ I care about you. I always have.” He laughs a self-deprecating laugh. “I just-I haven’t been able to say it, these past few days. It’s hard, with the Lonely.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin shakes his head, and brings Jon closer. “No, it’s alright.”

“Just to clarify, you care about me as a friend-?”

Martin splutters and turns red again. Jon starts to worry about his health. “ _Jon_ , I-I was about to ask if I-if I could _kiss_ you, and I understand that I’ve probably brought the mood down a bit-“ Jon kisses him.

Martin’s lips are soft and taste of wine, and after a short noise of surprise, he moves his hands to Jon’s hair. It’s nice, until Martin’s glasses start digging into Jon’s face, and he pulls away reluctantly to take them off. Martin protests mildly, but then he drags a thumb across Jon’s cheek, and sighs. Jon wants to kiss that sigh, and is overcome with the knowledge that he _can_ , so he does.

Martin opens his mouth slightly, and Jon pulls back. “Not-not like that.” He avoids Martin’s eyes. Martin hums. “Alright,” he says quietly, and kisses him on the cheek. It’s a tickling sensation, and Jon laughs nervously. “I-On the mouth is fine, I just-I don’t really like open mouth kisses. I find it rather-um, disgusting. It’s just-you _eat_ with that. And it all gets rather boring, so I-I’d prefer not to, but I-maybe I can, if you want-“

Martin kisses him again, for a second, and then pulls away. “It’s _fine_ , Jon. Actually, any other things I should know?”

Jon stays silent. He knows he should get it out of the way early, and Martin was fine with the kissing, but what if this is too much?

Martin notices his hesitation, and says, “For me, it’s touching my neck. Or unexpected touch.” He voice wavers. “I mean, if It’s not too much hassle, I know it’s kind of weird, announcing if you’re going to touch me, but with the Lonely it can be _painful_ , o-or _too much_.”

“It’s the same for me, actually,” Jon says, and smiles sadly. “My body can react-uh, violently, to unexpected touch, so I get it.” He takes a deep breath. “And, um, I don’t want sex. Never will, most likely. It’s nothing against you, I’ve always been like this, and I still love you-“

“Asexual?” Martin interrupts. “Sorry, go on, I shouldn’t have-“

Jon nods. “No it’s-that’s it. Also no touching below the belt. Anywhere else is fine, I think.”

“Got it.”

Jon lets out a breath and sags against Martin. “God, I’m tired,” he says. Martin chuckles. “That’s fair. I think we’ve filled our quota of emotionally draining conversations for today.” He embraces Jon, and they lay there. His eyes drift shut.

“Jon?”

He hums, and nuzzles closer into Martin. He wasn’t lying, the day was very draining, and it’s all hitting him like a truck. He can’t remember the last time he was this open.

“Jon? We can’t sleep on the floor.”

“Sure we can.”

Martin sighs. “I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” Jon mumbles in assent, and tightens his grip as Martin stands, wavering slightly.

Martin carries him to the bedroom, and puts him on the bed. He flops beside him a second later, probably also emotionally exhausted. Jon shuffles closer, pressing his body against Martin’s. “Is this okay?” he whispers, and Martin nods. “Can I-“ He slowly moves his arm over Martin’s waist, giving him time to move. Instead, Martin grabs his hand and entwines their fingers.

Jon faintly notes that they should probably change into pajamas, but he’s very comfortable and the skirt is soft. He sighs contentedly.

He’s on the brink of falling asleep, when Martin gently kisses his hand, and whispers, barely audible, “I love you too.”

The sun assaults Jon’s eyelids in the morning, and he groans and shoves his face into Martin’s back. Wait. He’s confused for a second, before the events of last night come rushing in, and his face breaks in a giddy grin. _Martin loves him_. Right now though, Martin is snoring softly, and even though Jon loves being near him, it is _very_ warm, and his teeth feel wrong. He lays there for a few more minutes anyway, relishing in the feeling of Martin breathing against his chest, and then he gently untangles himself and goes to brush his teeth.

He groans when he sees his reflection. His hair is a _mess_. He tries to brush it into submission, but his right hand aches, more so than yesterday, so he just brushes it out of his eyes and resigns himself to tangles. He wonders if he should cut it, but it’s immediately accompanied by an ache in his chest. He hated short hair. Or rather, he hated the way he looked with it.

He walks back into the bedroom. Martin is already awake, and he squints at Jon. “What’s wrong?”

Ah. So his frustration must have shown on his face. He tries to school his expression. “Nothing.” He aims for nonchalant, but it comes out tense.

Martin frowns.

Jon sits down on the bed and massages his burnt hand. “It’s just my hand, nothing serious. I wanted to tame this-“ he gestures to his hair, “and it’s giving me some trouble, but I’m probably still tired. I just wish I could braid it so it’d stay in place longer.”

Martin’s quiet for a second. Then he says, hesitantly, “I can do it for you, if you want?”

Jon swivels back to look at him. Martin’s blushing again. “I, ah, sure?” Honestly, the thought never occurred to him, but he thinks of last night, when Martin had carded his hands through his hair, and how nice it felt. He gets up to bring back his brush and a hair tie.

He sits in front of Martin, on the bed, and slowly relaxes as Martin starts.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to cut it? For your hand, you know.”

Jon tenses, and Martin hurriedly says, “It’s not that I don’t like it! I like it, it, uh, it suits you, but if it’s giving you this much trouble-“

“It feels wrong.”

Martin stops brushing for a second, then resumes. “What do you mean?”

“I-I don’t know, but when I had short hair, it felt wrong. My reflection. How I look to others. I know it sounds silly, but I don’t want to go back to that. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, yes, but I’d rather have it like this. It’s hard to explain.”

Martin starts separating the hair into strands. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but does it have something to do with the skirt? It’s just-I know how it feels, with the hair. I couldn’t stand long hair, couldn’t wait to hack it all off. Is it-is it like that?”

Jon thinks. He thinks about how his reflection reminds him of his mother, what faint memories he has, thinks about Georgie teaching him how to apply nail polish, thinks about Tim wearing skirts sometimes, way back when he was still-and how that feels different.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure yet.” He settles on that.

Martin breathes. “That’s alright. You don’t have to know. But if you ever _do_ know, you know I’m here for you, right?”

Jon reaches behind and finds Martin’s hand. “Thank you.”

Martin kisses it and returns to braiding.


	2. Chapter 2

After they’re done lazing about on the bed, Jon begrudgingly admits that they should probably go make breakfast. He’s not hungry, hasn’t been in ages, but it makes Martin happy. And besides, now that making meals has been turned into a fun activity he does with Martin, the whole prospect looks that much more appealing.

He even manages a few bites, and Martin beams at him.

Jon feels the desperate urge to kiss him, and then realizes he _can_ , now. He’s allowed. So he leans over and kisses him, and Martin huffs a surprised laugh.

Martin had changed out of yesterday’s clothes, but Jon had decided to stick with the skirt for a while longer. Martin remarks that maybe they should buy some more, next time, and something in Jon’s stomach flips.

He feels like a child, remembers how his mother had let him wear whatever he wanted, and how his grandmother had taken his skirts and dresses away. He had cried, not only because they were _his_ , but also because they were something he had shared with his mother, and if they were gone then she was too. His grandmother had taken pity on him, and left him with a single skirt, with strict instructions to only wear it inside the house. ‘ _I’m trying to protect you, Jonathan. People wouldn’t like that sort of thing._ ’ That sort of thing. He realized then, that according to his grandmother, this wasn’t normal. It had felt ridiculous.

He supposes now, that it probably didn’t matter. He had been bullied anyway, skirt or no skirt, and at least with the skirt maybe he would have had the freedom to discover things earlier.

They go on a walk later, because it’s a sunny day again and there isn’t much to do in the cabin. Jon stares at himself, debating whether to change out of the skirt, his previous anxiety resurfacing, and it takes him so long that Martin checks on him, already dressed in his ear flap hat.

He decides that anxiety can go fuck itself, and goes outside with the skirt.

Jon feels a bit silly then, when they’re outside. He’s been through so many terrifying situations, situations that scarred him, physically and emotionally, and he’s anxious over an article of clothing.

Besides, he’s not trying to win anyone over. Martin loves him- _he loves him_ \- and that’s good enough.

-

The next time they go down to the village, it’s a few days later. Jon really wants to check out that bookstore-or was it a library?, and Martin needs a new pen. He’s been writing almost constantly, but refuses to show Jon, says he will when it’s ready.

Jon’s hand hovers over the skirt, before the Eye informs him that it’s very windy outside(a storm’s coming, a particularly bad one). He feels slightly relieved, and then immediately guilty.

It turns out to be a bookstore/library actually. There’s two sections, books you can borrow, and books you can buy.

Martin squeezes his hand and whispers that he’s going to check out the poetry section. Jon squeezes back, and heads towards a shelf which looks like it’s filled with old books. He’s always had a fondness for used books, with torn covers and yellowing pages. They felt like their contents held more secrets than the others.

Jon picks out five books to borrow, realizes it’s been a while, and starts looking for Martin. He’s not at the poetry section, and Jon feels a stab of panic. He walks quickly through the store, heralding a few confused looks from the patrons. He heads towards the middle.

The bookstore/library reminds Jon of Waterstones in that there’s a small part where there’s things other than books you can buy, little knickknacks. There’s even a small highland cow, and Jon reaches out to touch it automatically. It’s _very_ soft, and he resists the urge to rub it against his face. He thinks back to the Institute, before everything went wrong(was anything _ever_ right), how Martin had a small plush puppy on his desk. Jon had scoffed at it, declared it unprofessional(never to Martin’s face). It got eaten by worms.

He takes the cow into his bag with his books before he can think better.

The relief he feels upon seeing that black mop of hair is almost overwhelming, and he almost runs towards it. He slows down when he sees what Martin’s looking at.

For some reason, the bookstore/library has a small shelf dedicated to various small objects, with seemingly nothing in common. Jewelry, pins and badges, novelty umbrellas and a few colorful mugs. At first, Jon thinks Martin is looking at one of the mugs, but then he sees that Martin’s holding something. It’s a small blue bottle – nail polish. There’s a whole section on the shelf dedicated to small colorful bottles.

“Find your pen?”

Martin jumps slightly, almost dropping the bottle as he does so. He puts a hand on his chest dramatically. “ _Jesus_ Jon! A little warning next time?” Jon laughs and moves closer. “I thought I completely lost the ability to sneak up on anyone these days, big Eye entity and all.” Martin scoffs.

“I actually did find a serviceable pen, and a couple of poetry volumes too.” He gestures to the three books and pen on the adjacent shelf. Jon squints at them. “No Keats then?”

Martin snorts a laugh. “No I-I think I might need something else right now.” He looks back at the bottle in his hand. “And I thought maybe-well you don’t have to, but it’s been a while since I painted my nails, and I thought you’d like to as well? Um, sorry if I assumed wrong, but I just saw these and got caught in the idea of us maybe-“ His voice dies down a bit. “Of us painting each others nails? Again, you don’t have to obviously, it was just a passing thought-“

“I’d love to.” Jon looks at him and smiles. “I actually used to paint my nails a lot, before the Archives. I stopped because at first I wanted to look ‘professional’, and then later I just didn’t have the time. Daisy painted my nails once, actually.”

Martin makes a noise of disbelief.

“Really! I had been biting them a lot, and she said she couldn’t stand it anymore. It helped for a week, before they inevitably chipped.”

It had also been the first time in a long while that anyone had touched him without violent intent, and even though Jon had been slightly tense the entire time, his body and instincts still terrified of Daisy, the bright purple that shone on his nails had made him happier, just for a bit.

“Do you have any color in mind?” Martin asks. Jon takes a closer look at the meagre selection. Some of the bottles are obviously old, half full and stained. There’s one that catches his eye. It’s a bright yellow. He takes it, and upon further consideration, takes a purple bottle too. Martin nods, and takes the blue and black for himself.

Jon tries to sneakily buy the stuffed cow, but it proves to be impossible, as they’re both getting their books together. Martin’s eyes grow wide as soon as Jon takes the cow out, and since there’s no way he can hide it now, Jon shoves the cow into Martin’s hands when they leave the store(library/bookstore/???). “It’s for you,” he says, face burning.

Martin touches the fur reverently. “It’s so.. _soft_ ,” he says, and then he’s stepping forward and _hugging_ Jon, warm and tight. “Thank you.”

Jn rests his head on Martin’s shoulder and huffs. “It’s just a cow.”

“Well it’s a _very_ good cow.”

\--

“Tangerine.”

“What?”

Martin stops and levels Jon with a serious look in his eyes. “The name of the cow.”

“That’s- _why?_ ”

Martin shrugs and starts walking again, swinging their hands slightly. “Tangerines are orange, and so is the cow.”

Jon laughs. “Fair enough, I suppose.” And because he’s feeling cheeky, “Though I was under the impression that tangerines were yellow-“

“ _Yellow?_ Jon-“

\--

Martin’s hand is warm as he holds Jon’s carefully. It hasn’t been warm in days. Martin’s being very careful and focused with the nail polish, and it’s rather endearing; his nose scrunched up and brows furrowed. Jon considers telling him he wouldn’t mind if Martin painted his entire finger with nail polish, but he’s not sure Martin would agree.

The result is nearly perfect, and Jon tells him so. Martin blushes, and then it’s Jon’s turn.

He realizes, bottle in hand, that there was another reason he didn’t paint his nails. Ever since Jude burned his dominant hand, he wasn’t all that good with tasks that required fine motor control. Today’s a good day, thankfully, but he still eyes the hand with trepidation.

“You okay?” Martin asks gently, and Jon realizes that he’s probably been staring at the bottle for longer than he thought. He hums.

“Um, your nails might not turn out as well.” He gives a self-deprecating smile and shows his burnt hand.

Martin covers it gently with his own. “Does it hurt? I can do my own, I should have thought of that before asking.”

“No, it’s just-It doesn’t hurt, not today, except I can’t feel much in it, and it isn’t as good with fine motor control. I’d-I’d like to still try? Besides, I still have my left hand.”

Martin nods and extends his fingers, and Jon takes his hand.

The end result isn’t nearly as perfect, but Martin smiles wide when he looks at it, and Jon thinks that maybe it doesn’t have to be.

\--

Jon wakes up, cocooned in Martin’s arms, and feels wrong. The feeling is only exacerbated when he sees himself in the mirror, slight stubble growing in. He shaves it off, and it helps, just a little.

He used to have many days like these, especially after uni, when he decided to look ‘professional’ and cut off his hair, started wearing suits and slacks that emphasized his angles and shoulders. The days still happened after Prentiss, but he had been rather preoccupied at the time, so those feelings got shoved back in his mind, to be ignored and suppressed.

He doesn’t understand why he can’t just- _be ok_ with this, he should be _happy_ , he _is_ happy, and when Martin hands him a tea with a sleep addled smile and a peck on the cheek, he burns with joy.

And yet.

The feeling persists, but after years of learning to deal with it, he trudges on. He steals one of Martin’s bigger jumpers, formless and soft, and relishes Martin’s face when he sees Jon in it. It’s not until Martin asks him what to put on the grocery list when he realizes it’s Monday; their designated shopping day. He’d really rather stay in, not let anyone see him, but that would be selfish, wouldn’t it? He’s just feeling a bit under the weather, and he can’t help but feel a little anxious at the prospect of Martin going alone.

“Jon?” Martin says, jolting Jon out of his thoughts.

“Hm?

“I asked if you wanted anything else?”

“Oh. Uh, bananas, maybe?”

Martin jots this down. Then he raises his head and squints at Jon. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?” Jon thinks about the skirt in the laundry, and wishes he had the energy to suggest getting another one.

“It’s just-You’ve been a bit quiet, today. Something on your mind?”

“I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.” Jon’s hand clenches around the jumper.

Martin furrows his brow. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

\--

The walk there is pleasant, and Jon almost forgets his trepidation, the breeze cool on his face. When he’s alone with Martin, surrounded only by birds and cows, he feels like they’re just two people. It’s a nice change from London, from trying to be something people wanted him to be.

There’s a lot of people in the store, and Jon reflexively looks at Martin and squeezes his hand. Martin squeezes back, once. So not too bad yet. They devised the system after Martin admitted it was hard for him to talk when he was getting overwhelmed; Two squeezes meant ‘ _I need to leave, right now’_ , and one squeeze was _‘It’s fine’_.

They go through the list slowly, still not sure of where everything has its place in the store. It’s only their third time, but Martin already knows exactly where the tea section is, and Jon feels a fondness swelling in his chest.

Jon’s smiling at Martin as he goes over the tea with a determined focus, as if choosing the right one was the difference between life and death, when it happens. Something slams into him full force, and he stumbles, bad leg aching. His mind starts racing. _Have they finally found us? Is someone going to take him away now, kidnap him again, is Elias here to finish the job?_ He feels his breath quicken, but then Martin says his name, hesitantly touches his arm, and he takes a deep breath.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He finally refocuses, onto the face of an older woman, a small child hiding behind her legs. “Emily, apologize to the gentleman.” The word twists in his stomach. _Gentleman._

The little girl peeks out and mumbles, “I’m sorry, sir.”

He manages to mumble out an, “It’s alright,” before the woman starts talking again.

“You know how it is, it’s her birthday today, and she has trouble keeping all that energy inside. I can barely keep up with her.” She laughs. “I haven’t seen you two before, here on holiday? Small village, you know.” She says this in a staged whisper.

“Um, yeah, we got here from England a few weeks ago. We’re not sure how long we’re going to stay yet.” Martin pipes up, stepping closer to Jon. She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I figured, what with the accents. How are you finding it so far?”

“It’s lovely, very quiet. A lot less busy than what we’re used to, for sure.” Martin says, and Jon watches as the little girl scampers off, getting bored of the conversation.

“Oh, you haven’t met Iona yet! Actually, if you’re interested, she runs a knitting club in the library on Sundays. If you’re ever bored, feel free to join us, it’s at 3 pm.” She notices Emily is gone, and sighs. “Darn. Well, I’d better go stop her from bowling over anyone else. See you on Sunday?”

Martin stutters. “I-I, maybe?”

“Grand.” She winks. “My name’s Aileen, by the way.”

“Uh, I’m Martin. And this is-“

“Jon.”

She waves goodbye, and Martin huffs. “She seemed nice.”

Jon hums. “A bit nosy, if you ask me.”

Aside from that incident, nothing notable happens in the store, and Jon finds himself dwelling on that word. Gentleman. Sir. Usually, he’d be able to brush it off, but today he’s already feeling off, and for some reason, the words sting more than usual. He brushes back a stray hair, and thinks back to when Tim called him bossman. He remembers his mood always souring when Tim said it, but he thought it was because Tim was calling him boss, when they had been friends in Research. That was part of it too, but maybe-maybe he had an issue with the second part as well.

On the walk back, Martin talks about how he had knitted, for a while, as stress relief, and how maybe it would be nice to try again. Jon hums, and opens the door for him. “We should be careful. We’re still on the run, technically. Even using our real names was probably a mistake.”

Martin snorts. “What, Jon, do you think it’s secretly a front for a cult of Hunters? Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to mention my eldritch boyfriend who’s living in a cabin _perfect_ for murdering, I’m sure they’ll jump at the opportunity. I mean, what else would grandmas do on their day off?”

Jon stills, hand on the cupboard door. “What did you say?”

“What, murder grandmas?”

“No, uh, the boyfriend part.”

Martin gets a look on his face as if he hadn’t even noticed he said it, and flushes. “Oh! I’m sorry, is that-do you not like it? I just thought-“

Jon hurriedly corrects him. “No, I-I just don’t-I’m not a man.” He lets out a breath, feeling like he finally got something out. “I’m not a man.” He repeats it, feeling more sure, and sits down on the couch, face in his hands.

He feels the couch move next to him, and he automatically moves closer to Martin. Martin embraces him with one arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m not a woman either. I-I always felt like gender was so _unnecessary_ , for me, at least, so maybe I just shouldn’t care? But-it just feels _wrong_ , sometimes. It’s not-This isn’t because of the Eye. I’ve always felt like this.”

Martin kisses the top of his head. “Okay. So, any words I should avoid?”

“You’re taking this remarkably well.” Jon cranes his head to look at Martin.

“Jon, I’m _trans_. Besides, I did tell you I’d be here for you, right?”

Jon settles in closer. “Right. Well, I don’t like boyfriend. Maybe partner?” Martin nods against him.

“I’ll be sure to tell the Hunt affiliated grandmas about my eldritch partner, then.”

“ _Martin_.” He tries to be admonishing, but considering the rush of euphoria that just passed through him, he manages to be overwhelmingly fond instead. Martin laughs.

“Is he/him still okay, or should I use something else?”

Jon thinks for a second. “It’s okay, I think. I’ve never tried anything else. Though…actually, if-if you don’t mind, you could use ‘they’ for me sometimes? Just to see if it fits.”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep updating this with new chapters sporadically, just lighthearted stuff hopefully, though I do have a sort of plot in mind for the inevitable 'statement' incident. Hopefully this was enjoyable!


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